


One Night Standards

by schizoress



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dalish Elves, Drinking & Talking, First Meetings, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon, Promises, Shameless Smut, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schizoress/pseuds/schizoress
Summary: In the low streets of Tevinter there sits a tavern that lights up late at night. It offers anonymity for all its patrons under an unspoken rule. Dorian frequents the place, and tonight he finds a rarity: A lone elf, unshackled, unbothered, and alone.The first in a (hopeful) series of oneshots following the relationship of one Lavellan Inquisitor and Dorian Pavus.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	One Night Standards

“A Dalish? Wandering the Imperium without a care in the world?”

“Well places like these in the dead of night.. Few are lucid enough to notice more than the fact that I’m pretty.” The elven drawl- or, well, it’s not quite a drawl now is it. Everything that isn’t strictly Imperium quality prose always sounds suspiciously _Southern_ to Dorian. He likes to think, though, that it’s because everyone not from Tevinter these days always does end up having their forever home somewhere in the South. Fereldens do so love to travel, and the Dalish are the kings of never settling into one place for very long.

Dorian looks around them, at the melting pot of appearances and backgrounds tucked away all for their own little secret escape within this bar-turned-inn. There are features he recognizes among the milling of bodies, but he’s never quite certain that it’s because he has seen them here before, or if it is from their regular walks of life. Whatever the case may be, it’s an unspoken rule not to mention it. They are all strangers here. 

His eyes drift back to the elf swirling a half-empty champagne glass, eyes too lucid to have been indulging for very long. “That said, what’s such an alluring individual as yourself doing tucked away into a corner of a place like this?” Dorian invites himself to slide into the booth across from his newly acquainted stranger. Genuine amusement creases the corners of pretty eyes the color of a forest’s canopy and the mage feels something deeper tug at his curiosity.

“Drowning one’s sorrows is best done secluded, but this is the safest place for someone of my.. background to come for a good drink.” He presses the rim of the glass to his lips finally, pretty pink tongue tracing the curve of it before he tips it up and downs the rest of his drink.

“Sorrows?” Dorian echoes, distracted, left hand raising to catch the attention of a server more out of reflex than necessity. 

“Forgive me if I don’t wish to elaborate on them.” The elf’s eyes follow the line of Dorian’s arm, suspiciously interested in the glimpse of dark skin peeking out from beneath his coat. He pries his gaze away when a server wanders up, decidedly a bit too casually to not know very well what she’s been hailed for.

“Your usual, hun?” The woman’s tone is conversational, her pen tapping idly against the pad of paper she’d magically withdrawn from somewhere on her pocketless person. When Dorian just nods she clicks her tongue and turns to the other man, assessing. “I’ll be back then.” She hums, to neither of them in particular, and slips away with a thoughtful look on her face.

“Well I just happen to know very well that drinking alone is dangerous.” Something purple and hazy sparks the air around him for a moment before wafting away, “So, would you allow me to join you?”

The elf scrutinizes him, leaving a long suffering silence in the wake of the question that lasts until the server drops off a bottle of what must be their finest red and settles two glasses down onto the table, sneaking the champagne flute out from under his nose in even trade and flitting off to tend to the rest of the building’s milling guest list.

“If you’re supplying the drink, then I guess there’s no harm in letting you stay.” He decides finally, walking two of his fingers across the tabletop to tap the flat base of the glass closest to him. “But so we’re clear, we’re not here together and we won’t leave together.” His eyes are sharp for a moment, intent, and then the sly smile softens them to something mischievous. “But something in your eyes… feels familiar. Someone step on your heart too?” The elf chuckles at the way Dorian’s eyes widen just a smidge, like a cat caught in the dead of night.

“Now what makes you say-”

“Never mind that, handsome. You were right, drinking alone is dangerous. The least our two embittered hearts can manage is a good drinking partner.” His voice dips warmly down into a companionable rumble. The southern lilt to his vowels makes Dorian’s skin prickle with an odd sensation that he rightly ignores in favor of uncorking the bottle between them and graciously pouring for his new acquaintance first. 

The elf waits for Dorian to pour his own glass before lifting and tilting his drink forward in an offered toast. “A name to toast to?” He asks softly over the dainty clink of the rims of their glasses touching.

“Dorian.” It’s a little tense, but well meant, and he waits while the elf takes his first taste of the wine, rolling it over his tongue and sighing sweetly before offering a fair return.

“Lavellan.” The name is more of a sound to Dorian's ears, and he knows that must be a given name--not who he is but who They are. His clan, those he comes from and represents. He wonders if the unspoken ‘no attachments’ rule applies here, to genuine curiosity and small talk. Dorian holds his tongue while he still has control of it, though. Better to save being invasive for when he has had enough wine to try and excuse himself for it. 

The rich red of said drink swaths his tongue in something darkly sweet, its undertones smoky and lingering even after he swallows and sets the glass back down on the table so that he can steeple his fingers before him and lean in. 

“So besides the obvious, what are you doing in Tevinter?” 

Lavellan looks thoughtful for a moment, almost like he might tell the whole truth, and then, “This place is filled with secrets, what’s one more that you can’t tell when you leave.” He takes another drink, the pour half gone when he speaks again. “I’m a scout.” He is still careful with his words, though Dorian knows that scout and spy, in a scenario where the elf is forced to put his life on the line for information, are interchangeable. “Picked this death wish of an adventure when my lifemate lost their mind to demons and nearly slaughtered half my clan.” It’s a shocking glimpse into the dark of Lavellan’s mind, and Dorian knows better than to pry but…

“So, what,” He begins, reaching for his glass again, pretending to be devoutly interested in the way the liquid sloshes when he guides it toward his mouth, “you’re alone in the Imperium because you want to end up dead like your friends?” His nose wrinkles a little, judging the idea before snorting a disbelieving laugh. “Even _I’m_ not that suicidal.” He mutters, downing the rest of his first glass so that he can promptly refill it.

“I don’t-” The elf seems to seethe for a moment, green eyes slits of sharp disapproval before he’s silenced by the click of Dorian’s tongue.

“Then what _do_ you want?” Silence. The gentle sound of liquid filling a finite space and splashing into itself. Dorian offers the bottle to Lavellan, lips curled smug and expectant as he awaits an answer to either question.

“I…” The elf’s grip on his glass tightens and for a moment, by the way his knuckles go briefly white, Dorian thinks he might shatter the stem of it. “I want to forget, but I also want to know if there’s any inkling of that magic that drove them mad here in Tevinter.” His grip loosens and he sighs, defeated and ashamed. Exposing his feelings to a stranger, it’s a weakness he didn’t intend on delving into by any means. At least that’s all they are though. Strangers in the night, ghosts come morning. 

A deep, centering breath and Lavellan throws back the rest of his glass before accepting the mage’s offer of a fresh pour. If Dorian notices the way his hand wavers as he settles his glass back onto the table, he’s kind enough not to mention it yet.

“Well, I can only offer help with one of those wishes.” He’s lying, sort of. His name carries plenty of weight, and as it is he hasn’t managed to completely alienate himself from his father yet. A word here, a small favor there and Dorian could certainly figure out what exactly went wrong with the maddening magic that had cursed Lavellan’s clan. He probably wouldn’t have a solution--elvhen magic is finicky in nature and none of the very brutish expertise of the Imperium could ever hope to pick it apart and find out how it works. But he would have answers, at the very least, and that seems to be all the elf is even hoping for. 

It’s truly too bad that this conversation and anything to come of it will never leave the walls of the tavern. The way Lavellan’s eyes shine with poorly suppressed hope before he stifles it and looks away again is almost enough to make Dorian want to break the rules.

“Yeah?” The elf pretends to be unbothered, unimpressed, “And what makes you so certain you could help me forget something like that?”

Dorian is almost offended, but sips at his wine with such unrestrained amusement that it’s hard to tell. “I assure you, Lavellan.” He tests the name on his tongue, rolls the vowels through his mouth like candy, “I can clear your mind for as long as you’ll have me.” He notes the way the elf’s ears twitch with interest, finds it painfully endearing how he leans in, pretending to be more interested in finishing his wine.

“And how shall I have you, then?” The inquiry catches Dorian off guard, pupils dilating at the underlying meaning. His mind races with all the possible answers, but he catches himself gracefully falling into the playful banter.

“Well you have my attention already. Anything more you need to take your mind off things neither of us can help now..” Another sip, voice warming after a swallow, “Well, I'm more than happy to indulge you in any way your desires ask of me.” He doesn't add the within reason bit he thinks he should. Surely an elf with a weary heart couldn't ask for anything too unusual.

“Anything, you say?” Lavellan’s tongue slips out to wet his lips before he begins to worry the full pout of the bottom one between pretty white teeth. Dorian wonders if it’s a nervous tick, or just something the elf does when he’s thinking too much. 

His glass is empty again before Lavellan can seem to figure out what exactly it is he might want, and so the mage decides to guess. He reaches across the table, fingers curling under a painted chin, thumb tracing lips now parted in gentle surprise. Lavellan’s eyes are sharp despite the alcohol, staring him down, picking apart unasked questions only to come up short of any real answers.

“One night.” The words send warm puffs of air skittering across his skin. Lavellan’s entire form softens then and melts forward against the table as he turns his head to lean into the gentle touch drifting to cup his cheek. His eyes are lidded now but ever vigilant, hyperaware as any free elf in the Imperium has to be. Dorian wants, suddenly, and what he wants is to give Lavellan a night he’ll never forget. One that might overshadow tragedy, at least in the moment.

Lavellan’s lips taste like the wine they’re sharing, something bubbly laying underneath. The champagne he’d been nursing before Dorian had sat down and barged into his quiet lonely spell? A soft sigh and eager tilt of his head and the elf’s lips part for him to drag his tongue past. The kiss is slow and strangely sweet: all careful exploration and tentative licks, no teeth or heavy breaths. It’s just… soft. 

Their noses knock clumsily against one another as Dorian pulls away, drawing a not-quite chuckle from his elven companion. “You’re dangerous,” Lavellan concedes, only just barely managing to stop himself from leaning further forward trying to chase those lips again. He busies his mouth instead with the rim of his wine glass, taking a final drink and replacing it on the table empty again.

The bottle still looks to have a glass left in it for each of them and it’s Lavellan who offers to pour it for them this time. 

“You wound me.” Dorian fakes a weary sigh and presses his hand to his chest in mock-offense, “I’m absolutely _harmless_.” The word comes with emphasis both verbal and physical, the air around them suddenly static--alive for a moment before settling. He knocks his boot playfully against Lavellan’s shin as he sets the now-empty bottle of red back down and out of the way. 

“You’re like a cat gotten into the cream. A _menace_.” Lavellan corrects, swirling the liquid in his glass idly now before drinking from it, tossing the mage currently trying to play footsies with him under the table as sincerely suspicious a side-eye as he could manage given the way his lips kept betraying his smirk.

“Nonsense! You’re fond of me already, I can tell.” Dorian winks, gestures with his glass a bit and rolls his eyes, “If I were a cat you’d try to steal me away and keep me as a pet, I bet.” The wine tastes suspiciously sweet now, none of the subtle burn of alcohol to be found as he knocks back half the glass. It might be a sign of nearing too much, but indulgence is all about never stopping at ‘just enough’ isn’t it?

“You would make a terrible pet. Overconfident, reckless, too handsome for your own good-” Then Lavellan hums thoughtfully. “The whole clan would be jealous.”

“Of me or of you?” Dorian asks the question without pause, a burning curiosity making him raise a brow when Lavellan stumbles over an answer.

“Wha- of me, of course. That is to say, if I took you home with me you’d be all mine.” The curt little nod, like he’s reassuring himself more than making it a point to Dorian is unbearably cute. “To do with and for as I please.” The elf puffs up a bit, protective of a nonexistent cat version of a man he’s only just met and barely knows by name. He deflates just as quickly from the quick press of Dorian’s lips to his and the pull and drag of teeth at his lower lip as the mage pulls away again.

“You think you could promise me the same if I let you take me,” Dorian licks his lips, body warm with a sudden interested flush, “to bed?”

Red blooms across the bridge of Lavellan’s nose and all the way up to the points of his ears. The heat in Dorian’s gaze blazes at the thought of catching the tip between his teeth and seeing what reactions he could pull doing something so simple. He preens at the way the elf fidgets under his patient, expectant gaze, and his fingers carefully pry the half-filled wine glass out of Lavellan’s flustered death grip.

“I’ve got a room with a view almost as gorgeous as the one I get sitting here looking at you,” He offers his hand as he moves to stand up from the booth finally, steady enough for being three glasses and a couple of weak shots deep for the evening. “Would you like to join me for the night?”

Despite the confidence he exudes during the request, Dorian can feel the tension drain from him all at once as soon as he feels Lavellan’s hand slip into his, fingers pressing gently against his palm as the elf pries himself out of his seat. It’s all the answer Dorian really needs, but he decides to press his luck, tugging suddenly at the wrist in his grasp and pulling him close, closer still with an arm around his waist now and his free hand at Lavellan’s chin. “Would you have me, Lavellan?” He asks again, greedily looking for something verbal as if the Dalish elf hadn’t already given up every ounce of trust he had to be wrapped in the tender embrace of a Tevinter mage.

“Yes,” It’s but a breath of an affirmation, but it’s more than enough to stroke a man’s ego and stoke burning coals of interest into a flickering flame. “Yes, Dorian, please..” The elf trails off, still beet red and clearly nervous despite his surety in what he wants. There are a handful of people looking at them, like maybe they’ll get a show to end off their night with and Lavellan has the audacity to look concerned.

“Never mind them.” Dorian’s voice is quick and clear, his hand at Lavellan’s hip squeezes reassuringly, and he begins to lead them toward the far staircase. “I’m not much of a sharing man, Lavellan, the night will be ours and ours alone.” He promises with one last press of their lips, cheerful and light before putting enough space between them that they won’t trip over one another going up the steps.

They skip the second floor entirely, the soft creak of wood under their shoes the only sound to announce their passing. The third floor is quieter, somehow, closed off by a locked door that Dorian doesn’t miss a beat in magicking open, dragging the elf through with him. It drifts back shut on its own, the purple seals lighting back up along the handle and locking mechanism. Something about it is eerie, but Lavellan doesn’t seem bothered. Doesn’t seem afraid even though, in essence, it looks like the door has trapped him in just as much as it’s locked others out. He just sneaks lithe fingers around Dorian’s wrist and squeezes, a little drunk and maybe too trusting, but steadfastly eager to get to where they’re going.

The hallway seems longer than it actually is, the walls wobble and the few doors they pass have soft noises muffled behind them. Lavellan doesn’t know if he should mind his business or listen closer--his ears twitch at a particularly punched out noise off in the distance and he immediately imagines the same sound falling off Dorian’s tongue. He doesn’t think he could be any warmer, any redder then he feels right now.

“Come on in.” Dorian’s voice and the gentle rush of fresh air as the large mahogany door he doesn’t remember reaching swings open startles him out of his thoughts. Lavellan steps inside, ahead of his new companion, and stops just three paces in, eyes wide.

The room is dark, the only light sources the dwindling fire at the hearth and the rays of moonlight filtering in through half-shut curtains. There’s a lavish, queen sized bed draped in expensive silk sheets, its pillows dressed in satin and it is clear then that this room is reserved for.. Special occasions. Special _guests_ ; the ones known enough to afford it and somehow remain unseen in the night as a visitor. 

If it raises any suspicion, the elf seems to know well enough not to mention it, but Dorian doesn’t know why he would even think to. The way his eyes drift over the furnishings once and then latch onto him, never leaving, dark and heady; pupils blown wide with intent. Dorian groans, the wine they’d shared finally settling into a pleasant warmth throughout his limbs. The look he gets as he steps back closer, hands seeking Lavellan’s hips to pull them flush against him again. It’s enough to tame any man and drive him mad all at once.

“Hey.” The man’s voice is soft, accent ripening the lust in his tone to something honeyed and smooth. Dorian wants to melt under it, top his every meal and drink with it. He settles instead for ducking his head to claim the inviting curve of already kiss-bitten lips. Revels in the breathy sigh-turned-moan as the elf shifts closer, grabs at his shoulders and pleads with every action to be completely taken.

And who could deny him?

Dorian leads them backwards toward the extravagant bed, melts under the delighted, amused chuckle that comes from Lavellan as he shoves at him, pushes him down and lays him out across the royal blue and lavender accented blankets. Everything feels too soft, suddenly, and Dorian’s heart stutters up into his throat when their eyes meet again. The air is heavy with something unspoken, apparent but not acknowledged. Deft fingers begin to unfasten the many intricacies of his Tevinter dress and Dorian lets himself forget, closes his eyes at the warm touch at his flank, rucking up fabric until it bunches under his arms and he has to wriggle to pull it the rest of the way over his head himself. 

The elf’s hands are curious, tracing over Dorian’s skin as if mapping out a memory. Something tender stirs deep in Dorian’s chest at the idea of being remembered after this. For this, because of this. The feeling flares and plummets to stoke the warmth low in his gut when he feels the path stray down his front, blunt nails scraping playfully through short hair and over sensitive flesh.

“You are entirely too dressed,” He voices the sudden thought aloud, lips quirking at how his words make the man above him pause, the sun-darkened skin across the bridge of his nose dusting red all the way to the points of his ears. Dorian catches himself staring when he sees how they fidget, wonders again if they are as sensitive as he’s been told by his peers who shamelessly gloat about bedding their servants. About the way the elven form responds to magic, the way their bodies look sprawled out or tied up, bitten and bruised and held. 

Dorian is not a selfish lover, even when it comes to flings like this, and he has no intention of ever subjecting a bedmate to half the horrors he hears rumor of. But he does wonder, sparks at the tips of his fingers as they sneak under the hem of Lavellan's light undershirt, if the rumors hold any birth of truth.

“And you, sir, are entirely too mysterious.” Lavellan counters, skin prickling with an odd chill as Dorian effortlessly undresses him until they’re both sat in just their smallclothes. He can feel the touch of magic at his sides; it tickles and he breathes out a laugh before attempting to stretch and lean away from the touch. 

“Mysterious?” Dorian’s breath is at his neck now, lips ghosting over the rise of Lavellan’s collarbone as he speaks, “Whatever could you mean by that?” He nips at pretty, unmarked skin, dragging his attention up further still until he can mouth at the curve of a delicate ear.

“I mean-” The elf pauses at the attention, stifling a moan by pulling his bottom lip between his teeth again. Definitely a nervous tick, then. “I mean it’s hardly f-fair that you know so much and I,” another hitch of breath when a hot tongue is followed by careful teeth all the way up to the tip of his ear. Lavellan’s hips stutter and roll haphazardly down to meet Dorian’s, seeking some sort of pressure to relieve the building tension between his legs.

Dorian does not oblige him, however, and instead lets his hands find either hip to hold the elf steady atop him now. “Not much to say,” He admits, catching the tip of a very red and overstimulated ear between his lips, nibbling at its point to draw another startled gasp from Lavellan. “I’m a grown man with daddy issues and nights like these are the only time I’m allowed any semblance of free will.” He offers this slowly, tentatively, but does not elaborate. 

They are here for a night of forgetting, he reminds himself just as raw memories and thoughts begin to surface, not to dwell on things they cannot change.

“I imagine they’re not _sexy_ daddy issues, then.” The quip makes Dorian snort out a laugh, fingers squeezing lightly at Lavellan’s hips as he leans back to look into the other man’s eyes. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for there, or if he’s looking for anything at all besides an excuse to get lost in them. 

“No, not sexy. Not at all.” His tone quivers with the remnants of his amusement and he lets his hands wander now. From hip to thigh to ass to waist. It’s his turn to feel out the body above him, fingers practiced in skirting pleasure and being just this side of too light, too barely there to count as anything but teasing. “You, my dear, are incredibly sexy though.” Dorian manages an appreciative hum before he rebusies his mouth with tracing the fine, purple-black tattoos across Lavellan’s chest.

He doesn’t know much about Dalish culture, but there’s something fascinating about the willingness to submit oneself to such spanning and painful body art just to announce to the world who or what exactly you may be. Lavellan is short and slim, but his whole body is well muscled. Probably a hunter of some sort, definitely good with a bow if the way the tattoos across his forearms flex with him is any indication. 

“ _Dorian_.” His name is light and needy on the elf’s tongue. It almost is enough to make him feel bad for teasing, but the strangled noise of consent when he palms the front of Lavellan’s smallclothes to find him nearly dripping from the attention smothers the feeling.

In an instant he has them flipped, Lavellan laid out atop the expensive comforter, his tightly woven braid fraying to let dark locks fall into a halo around him. Doing his best not to get distracted by the way his body moves like water, willingly flowing any way Dorian wills him to go, he sneaks fingers under the last scrap of fabric to hide Lavellan’s shame and peels them down toned thighs. The undergarment gets tossed carelessly to the side to join the rest of their clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor and Dorian sits back to take in the sight before him.

Brown skin dusted darker by plenty of time spent out in the sun, every muscle well toned and trained and subtly dangerous but pliant in the soft, speckled moon and firelight of the room. Bi-colored tattoos woven across every stretch of flesh, all connected at a spiraling star just under his sternum. Dorian lets his fingers trace one of the more purple-hued lines down the elf’s stomach and over his hip where it branches into roots that curve delicately in every direction. He notices sun-spots, freckles and a littering of thin, silver-pink scars in sensitive places. He wants to press his lips to each one as if an intimate embrace might help flood his mind with memories of another. 

He’s probably staring too hard and for too long and that’s why Lavellan’s voice sounds so small and far away. “Is.. this alright?” The elf sounds self conscious and suddenly the blotchy flush across his chest is no longer as arousing. Dorian scrambles to put his thoughts back together when he realizes what exactly Lavellan is asking him.

“Wh- oh. _Oh_ , Lavellan, gorgeous, you’re _breathtaking_ , don’t you dare-” Dorian leans back down, presses his lips chastely to the tip of the other man’s nose, and then sweetly to the corner of downturned lips. “Stop thinking so much, we only have the night, right?” He presses a kiss to his cheek, the curve of his jaw, the pulse near his jugular. One at his temple and then the tip of his ear--one more here, there, until Lavellan begins to squirm beneath him, a laugh so light Dorian almost dares to call it a giggle.

“Let me help you forget, or give you something better to remember.” He finally presses their lips together, hovers unmoving until Lavellan’s little whine and urgent tilt of his head causes their lips to slot together just so. The elf’s arms drape over his shoulders to pull him down even closer, letting his actions speak where he seemed afraid to use his own voice now. The kiss turns heavy and heated, all teeth and tongue and stolen breath. It’s almost too hot, drives Dorian a little crazy before he’s pulling away--or as far back as Lavellan will let him go with the way they’re tangled in each other now.

“Remember.” The elf’s voice is ragged as he tries to catch his breath, fingers pressing divots into Dorian’s shoulders, “I want to remember, when we leave.” He tilts his hips as he speaks, grinds them up into Dorian’s and snickers at the grunt that pulls out of him. As if Dorian had forgotten how hard he was and how warm the space between Lavellan’s legs had felt. 

“And you called me dangerous?” The mage laughs, breathless, and ducks his head again to bite at the pretty curve where Lavellan’s shoulder meets his neck. He slides his hands down the man’s sides, _feeling_ as he goes all the subtle imperfections and little excited, quickened breaths that wrack his form. His hands stop at the man’s hips for a moment, squeezing, a reassuring pressure, and then smooth over the tops of strong thighs. 

“Yes,” He cuts himself off with the anticipation-laden hitch of breath as one of Dorian’s hands wraps around the back of his thigh, shifting it up and to the side to spread Lavellan open beneath him. “Dangerous and a _tease_.” He tries for stern, something coated in vitriol but even to his own ears he just sounds dazed and excited. 

Dorian just laughs against his neck, presses one last kiss to the littering of bruises he’s left there and moves down the length of Lavellan’s body. He can feel the elf’s muscles flexing under his hands as he greedily spreads his thighs further apart, testing to see the limits of what he’s allowed to do. Lavellan just groans, hips twitching and then grinding wantonly up into nothing. He thinks he hears a pathetic little ‘please’ drift in the space between them but when Dorian glances up to check, the elf has a knuckle shoved between his lips.

The mage bites sharply at the juncture between hip and thigh, breath hot and oh so close to where Lavellan wishes he’d stray. “No hiding from me.” He’s referencing the stifled noises of appreciation and want that still slip out despite Lavellan’s mighty effort to save himself the embarrassment. “I want to hear how sweet you sound while I’m between your legs.” His lips brush soft flesh and he drags his tongue treacherously slow between the warm, wet folds before him. 

Lavellan’s next noise is clear, a stretched whine that he curls his toes on as Dorian settles to make a feast of him. He would admit that he’s never been the greatest at this part, or with this part rather, but the way Lavellan’s hips push up to meet his mouth erases the worry that he might not still be plenty good at it. He shifts his focus up just a little, wrapping his lips around the elf’s pretty little cock and sucking hard as he lets the fingers of one hand slip inside him. 

Everything about Lavellan is warm and inviting and begs him never to move away. The second his leg is freed the elf hooks it over Dorian’s dipped shoulder and uses it as leverage to keep the mage locked where he is. Not that he was wanting to move in the first place, his mouth full and mustache wet, his fingers spreading and prepping his meal leisurely. They had plenty of time, the moon still high in the sky, its rays fighting with the dwindling light of the fire to be the most romantic filter over their little rendezvous. With the soft, indulgent sounds falling from Lavellan’s lips, Dorian figured he could happily stay just like this all night.

But fingers carding through his bangs and a gentle push pull him away from such thoughts. “ _Dorian_ ;.” Determined, breathy, wanton--he wonders if he’ll ever want to hear his name like this on another’s tongue when it’s just so perfect coming from the elf. He licks his lips and wriggles out of the vice-like snare of Lavellan’s thighs and back up the length of him. He meets him with a kiss, hungry and heated and strangely desperate like this is a final goodbye rather than a one night stand with a stranger he’d just met in a seedy dive downstairs.

“Want you.” He feels more than hears the words against his lips, in between catching their breath and licking further into each others mouths, “Want you now, however, _wherever_ \-- just,” Dorian cuts off the rambling pleas with another kiss, this one soft and light, before leaning back to slip his own smallclothes off finally. The crisp night’s breeze against heated flesh is jarring at first, but the relief of being completely bare now alongside Lavellan overrides the feeling. 

Dorian catches him staring, and grins. “Like what you see, darling?” He purrs the endearment, thinks back to when he’d been equated to a mischievous cat earlier in their night, and laughs a little, stretching to show off for the man. Lavellan, if he can, turns redder than ever before and quickly averts his eyes as if he hadn’t just been squeezing his thighs around Dorian’s head and riding his tongue like a madman.

He sits back on his haunches, resting his weight on the balls of his feet as he wraps a hand around the base of his dick. Stroking himself slowly, he takes his sweet time to appreciate the view before him again, kind of wants to see if Lavellan will return to begging him to get a move on if he sits idle long enough. The gentle twisting pressure of his hand is relief enough that he thinks he could hover on this edge of not enough for a while longer, but dangerous green eyes flash up at him right as his hips stutter forward into the circle of his fingers, impatient.

“Now what’s that look for?” He has the audacity to sound hurt even as he feels one of Lavellan’s legs swing up over his hip, heel pressing insistent at the small of his back to try and draw him forward again. Dorian clicks his tongue and shakes his head disapprovingly, “Bossy without even saying a word, how cute.”

“I swear to the gods below-”

“Now now, aren’t I supposed to be the big bad cultist mage in this story? Besides,” He guides his cock forward, teases his head at Lavellan’s folds and revels in the choked off groan he gets in response, “I’ll have you swearing my name to your gods by the end of the night.” He leaves no room for arguing and presses into the elf beneath him in one slow, careful move. 

Dorian watches with rapt attention the way that his cock disappears into the wet heat of him and pulls back out slowly just to feel how Lavellan’s walls grip to try and pull him back in. When he trails his gaze back up he is met with a matching gaze- green eyes lidded and pupils blown wide, lips parted with staggered breath. He watches the elf lick his bottom lip and suddenly the want to watch him fall to pieces surges forward. 

The leg hooked around his hip squeezes at him gently, encouraging or asking for him to get a move on already. Dorian is happy to oblige, one of his hands slipping behind Lavellan’s free knee and leaning forward with the next snap of his hips to drape it over his shoulder. He presses in hard, grinds against the elf’s deepest, warmest parts and then pulls back out, slowly picking up pace. 

Lavellan’s hands search for purchase as he’s nearly bent in half with Dorian pressing into him, angled over him, the only thing he can think or feel is the mage now and he’s almost dizzy with it. His hips twitch where they’re pinned to the comforter as they try to meet each of Dorian’s thrusts, his body sloppily seeking more, somehow. He fists a hand in the sheets next to him, his other dragging its fingers up the side of Dorian’s face and through his sex-mussed hair, tempting him further and further down until the man is shallowly rutting against him just so Lavellan can feel those lips against his again. Really he just wants an excuse to muffle the pitched, whiny noises that escape him with every pointed, measured thrust that fills him to the brim. It’s embarrassing the way his toes curl and his eyes flutter shut, drool and breathy moans slipping between them even as he manages the sloppy kiss. 

A sharp bite to the curve of his shoulder draws him out of his thoughts and he hisses at the brief bloom of pain, wonders if Dorian had managed to break the skin but is immediately distracted by the sound of his voice, deep and rough, right at his ear. “ _Lavellan_.” His name on the man’s tongue sounds like sin and he feels a chill roll through his body that is instantly met with another deliberate thrust. He has to bite his tongue and steel himself to keep from rushing over that ever-nearing edge as the heat in his gut builds, tightens, begs him to let go.

“Dorian, _Dorian_ please, I-” His eyes flutter shut as the mage presses into a spot that makes him see stars, “I can’t.. I’m close, _please_.” The last word gets caught half in his throat, broken in half to stretch into a liquid moan as he tosses his head back. Dorian chuckles, breath ghosting across the bared expanse of his neck as he sucks bruises into the pretty skin there, fucking harder into Lavellan now. He’s close too, if the lapse in rhythm is anything to go by, but so determined to see the elf reach his peak first so as not to miss a single moment of the bliss that might spread so visibly across his features.

Lavellan tries to laugh at the grand sweeping gesture, the effort to bring him to climax first, but is immediately silenced by said orgasm hitting him in a crashing wave. Every muscle that isn’t already straining, flexes once and he has to toss his head back, jaw slack and eyes heavy as Dorian fucks him through it and into oversensitivity. He shoves in so deep that Lavellan almost swears he can feel him in his stomach, his toes curling at the thought. Every nerve ending he has screams at him to wriggle away, but he bears down instead, using what little strength _hadn’t_ already been fucked out of him to flip them around. 

He’s worn out, limbs just this side of useless, but rolls his hips down against Dorian with a renewed sort of determination. The man’s hands settle atop either of his thighs and Lavellan lets them guide him. He rides Dorian like it was what he was made for, as if his only job was to be stuffed full under the dwindling moonlight. 

“Come on,” His voice is hoarse from all the noises he’d been making, but Dorian doesn’t seem to mind, if anything Lavellan thinks hearing him just stokes the flames to roar even louder. “Cum for me, Dorian.” He breathes the request between them, leaning forward as his hips grind once, twice, three times before their lips meet and Dorian’s hands move to press bruises into his skin, holding him fast and still as he releases deep inside the elf. Lavellan swallows the heavy groan and kisses Dorian through it all; soft and sweet like this is their hundredth coupling and not the first and last. He kisses like he’s afraid to leave, and his heart squeezes at the mere idea in such a way that it must be the truth.

Neither of them move to pull apart, something unspoken and tense settles between them that isn’t safe to breach right now. Not when they’re both so lost in something as fleeting as this.

Lavellan is the first to move, purely by necessity as he feels their combined spend leaking out of him and drying down the insides of his thighs. It’s… disgusting, really, and he kind of definitely wants to clean up as soon as possible. The little featherlight kisses to his ear as he pulls away and slides up and off of the mage has him turning red again. He turns his head to hide the way his lips curl into a tender smile, but he doubts Dorian doesn’t notice. Nor that he would mind in the first place.

“It’s still night.” Dorian sounds tentative, breaching the subject of leaving with as casual a statement as he can manage. It’s enough to make Lavellan laugh, loud and clear, and he shoves at the mage’s shoulder. 

“Yeah. And I promised you the whole night, didn’t I?” He doesn’t hide the warm smile that pulls from him this time, just stretches lazily atop the bed and lets himself fall back onto it. He still feels uncomfortably sticky, but it’s late and he’s far too worn out to even consider running a bath.

The bed dips to his right before he can say anything else and he hears measured footsteps pace away from him. If not for the direction they’d headed off in, Lavellan thought he might have had the audacity to tear up and think Dorian had changed his mind and left early, having got what he wanted out of their evening together. Dorian returns not even five minutes later with a damp, warm cloth between his legs and eyes filled with something akin to adoration. The elf doesn’t let himself dwell too long on what that might mean, knows that if he does the morning will be just that much more painful to meet for the both of them.

There’s a pleasant lull of quiet between them as Dorian cleans him up and then settles back down onto the bed next to him. He tugs the blankets out from under them and drags them slowly back up and over their legs, a heavily ringed hand grabbing at Lavellan’s waist to draw him closer. The elf obliges without a moment’s hesitation, slipping his legs between Dorian’s and wedging himself as close as he can without curling into the man completely. The fingers at his side squeeze him once before those arms are wrapped fully around him again and he sighs, content.

“Wouldn’t have taken you to be a cuddler.” Lavellan quips, nosing along the underside of Dorian’s jaw and pressing a kiss over one of the matching bruises he’d left earlier in their romp.

“What can I say,” He drawls, sounding weary, “you just bring out the worst in me.” The words make Lavellan laugh, and he tucks his head up under the mage’s chin again, worming his way even closer as if he might have the chance to melt into Dorian and break his own stupid single night rule he’d made.

Several long moments pass in companionable silence, and sleep tugs ruthlessly at the both of them. Dorian is the first to check in again, pressing a tender kiss to the elf’s temple when he gets no response from quietly whispering the man’s name. He lets himself relax into the bed and listen to the steady rise and fall of Lavellan’s breathing, lets the odd level of trust lull him to sleep shortly after.

The moon watches over them for a few hours more before the room is swathed in darkness. Even the fire at the hearth stutters out, leaving them to slumber peacefully in each other's embrace.

The morning sun is gentle in its wakefulness, just barely peeking its rays into the room and over the bed. Dorian stretches languidly, the blankets bunching between his legs and falling to pool at his hips as he sits up. The bed is exceedingly large without Lavellan there to share it with him and the slow recognition that he’s alone again does something strange to his heart. He can’t stop himself from glancing quickly about the room from where he sits, just in case, and disappointing himself by finding nothing unexpected or out of place. He is just alone in a big, dressed up room. 

Negativity squeezes at his throat and he struggles to steady his breath through the onslaught of self-focused belittlement rattling around in his head.

_How dare you get your hopes up._

_As if you’ve even deserved that fleeting moment, let alone someone breaking the rules for you._

_You’re hardly that special._

Dorian sighs audibly, drags a hand down his face and tries to shake the thoughts from his mind. He succeeds at least in shoving them down and into the back of his focus where they can’t stop him from slipping out of bed and redressing himself. He smiles distantly at where his clothes sit, neatly folded on the arm of a loveseat, before slowly pulling them on to hide the very certain evidence of the night before. 

“A danger only to myself, it seems.” He mutters under his breath, bitterly amused, and stares down at his hands once he’s finished dressing. There’s a ring missing from his left thumb, he notices, and in the place of the purple-etched magic is something thinner, lined with black branching marks. He can’t help but laugh as he slides the ring off and presses the curve of it to his lips. There’s something magic in this one too, but not a summoning sort. It reminds him of the forest, of dark skin and intricate tattoos, of such a deep and sure green that his chest clenches.

“Another time, darling.” He whispers to the vacancy around him before sliding the ring back on and taking the first of many slow, measured steps toward the door of the room and out of the building entirely.

_Farewell._


End file.
